Never again, she swore. No more old medicine.
After showering and changing into a dry nightgown, and stripping the damp linens off the bed, she’d calmed enough to go back to sleep.
Then, she’d be damned, if she didn’t dream again.
Entering the dungeon blindfolded, a man sternly ordered her to kneel. As soon as she fell to her knees, a cock brushed her lips then thrust inside. Unrestrained—thank goodness—she struggled, but he kept on thrusting. He didn’t prevent her from tearing off the black cloth covering her eyes. Gazing up at the man, past his giant round belly, she noticed he was gnawing on a turkey leg, and atop his head was a golden crown. This time, instead of screaming, she awoke coughing and gagging in disgust. Relieved it wasn’t real; she’d still been appalled her unconscious brain had created such a foul Dom, although she’d borrowed from history in the form of King Henry the VIII.
After that, she gave up on sleep. Not about to go back to bed and be visited once again by the rotund, the inept, or the scary, she got up, splashed water on her face, and went down to the kitchen. Then she made an extra-large pot of coffee, all of which she drank before she went to work.
As she drove to the office, jittery from caffeine and exhausted, she tried not to dwell on the long day, and the even longer night, ahead of her. Looking ahead to Thursday at four o’clock, she felt sorry for Val who had her work cut out for her when she started digging around inside her warped brain.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered into the stillness of the little dungeon. With simulated stone walls, shackles bolted to the walls, and sconces with flickering lights, the theme room on the second floor was straight out of the medieval period. She’d seen it before, never thinking it looked like something Henry the VIII might have in his castle—at least consciously. It shed light on her bizarre dream, however.
Stocked with much of the same equipment found on the main floor—an A-frame bench with kneelers, a padded table, a St. Andrew’s cross mounted to the far wall, and chains hanging from the ceiling. None of it bothered Esme. She’d used most of it too, at least once, although not in a good while.
What upset her most was not having the forethought to bring a change of clothes to work with her that morning. It hadn’t occurred to her that her recently MIA boss would come flying in an hour before she planned to leave, in a lather about something he didn’t share. He’d barked orders at all of them and insisted she revise a brief she finished a week ago and had sat on his desk untouched all that time waiting for his approval.
His crisis mode micromanagement had shot a hole in her plan to leave at four o’clock on the dot, run home, shower, change, do full hair and makeup, then arrive at the club fifteen minutes early and stride calmly up to the room where she’d meet her Dom for the evening.
Instead, she’d run out of the office at a quarter past six, then battled standstill and bumper to bumper traffic during rush hour, taking forty-two of the forty-five minutes remaining until her appointment to drive seven miles. This left three minutes to park, run inside, check-in, traverse the always crowded lounge and main floor and get upstairs to her assigned room.
This meant she wasn’t calm, cool, and collected as she’d hoped, but out of breath, frazzled, feeling a bit sticky—ugh!—and wearing the same dove gray pencil skirt, waist-length matching jacket, and black and white pinstriped blouse she’d left the house in at seven a.m. Her hair was in her usual professional style bun at the back of her neck. As she stood in the center of the room, a sense of impending doom overwhelming her, she tried valiantly to collect herself while brushing back and tucking in wayward strands with trembling fingers. She hadn’t even had time to refresh her makeup.
“I’m screwed,” she groaned aloud. “Might as well go now, because when Master Eric hears about this, he’ll think I was blowing smoke about being serious and will tell me not to darken the door of Decadence ever again.”
As hinges in desperate need of oil creaked behind her, she snapped her mouth shut with a loud click of her teeth. She tensed further—if that were humanly possible—and called herself a fool again, for waiting with her back to the door.
Curiosity burned inside her, but she forced herself to keep still, not even looking up. And she clasped her hands behind her head, they were up there fooling with her hair anyway, in a last-second attempt at a submissive presentation, hoping to please him with that at least.
Her chest rose and fell, not from practically running from the parking lot, which seemed like a mile, at least, but from nervousness. She used to pride herself on how motionless she could be, her Master barely noticing her breathing, or seeing her blink, or detecting if a tremor passed through her. That was a long time ago, too long, and she was terribly out of practice. When all of it happened at once, like it did now, he’d have to be blind not to notice.
Standing in the middle of the empty room, eyes down, shoulders back, hands clasped so tight they pinched, Esme shivered as the A/C kicked on. Or at least that’s what she tried to convince herself.
Would this stranger be as observant as the Dungeon Master? Surely not, they were more experienced and skilled than those in the membership, usually. Master Eric said to trust him, but he wasn’t here. She had to face the unknown entity on her own.
Did he know how rusty she was?
Silly question. His fellow dominant would have clued him in on her troubles. Would he be patient or punish her if she hesitated, questioned, or heaven forbid, broke down and cried like a baby. The latter, what she felt could happen at any moment.
She’d take a thousand anxious Woodys, a hundred Newmans, or a host of angry Chef Ramseys, anyone from her dreams, right about now. They, at least, were the devils she knew. But not her nightmares. Carlos and royal forced blow jobs were hard limits she would not cross.
The creak of a floorboard cut into her rambling, insane thoughts and made her shiver again.
“Cold?” a low voice asked. She should have expected it. She knew he had entered, but she jumped. So not like her. Could she do this? Did she want to?
To begin again with a complete stranger, one she had never seen or spoken to, seemed crazy. But Master Eric hadn’t given her much choice. It was him or leave.
Her forced reply came out in a rasp just above a whisper, “Yes, sir. A little.”
Heels thudded against the floor as he drew closer.
Her heart beat faster, thrumming loudly in her ears, close to deafening. Surely, he could hear it, too and would know the extent of her nervous excitement. Hoping to calm herself and control her racing pulse, she inhaled, doing so slowly not wanting to alert him to her anxiety. A futile effort, most likely. If he were an experienced dominant, he would know, but she gave it a shot nonetheless, narrowing her focus on a slow, steady breath in through her nose and out through pursed lips.
She never got past in, because she caught a hint of his scent—part soap, a trace of woodsy cologne, but mostly clean, fresh, and distinctively masculine. Instead of keeping her unease below the radar, her exhale came out as a ragged sigh so loud in the stark, almost empty room, it echoed.
There was no way he could have missed it.
The footsteps halted, and she felt his presence behind her, standing near without touching, but giving off incredible heat. He shifted, moving closer, enough for his shirt to brush her back and for her to see his black wingtips bracket either side of her bare feet. She longed for her three-inch black pumps, the only remotely sexy part of her work attire, but she’d had to check them at the door.
She desperately wanted to look up, and peek in one of the wall-mounted mirrors around the room, but she kept her eyes lowered.
A finger ran up her arm slowly, lightly trailing over the silk of her sleeve. “I remember black leather from the other night, and far less than you’re wearing now. I’m guessing this isn’t your usual club attire, is it, lass?”
She jerked in surprise, and her head almost came up to see if her ears deceived her. But it was unnecessary.
Low and beautifully melodic, Master Finnegan’s lightly accented voice was unforgettable, as was the way he called her lass.
After his offer to help her find someone more suitable, never hinting at an interest of his own, it never occurred to her he would be her Dom for the night. A wave of warmth washed over her, mostly from relief that none of the awful scenarios she’d dreamed had come true, but also because as a DM she could trust him to follow the club rules.
Still, regretful of the impression her conservative suit must be giving him, she stammered out her excuse. “I was delayed, sir. Something came up at work at the last minute.” Trite and overly vague, it sounded made up. “My boss,” she rushed to explain, “was in a panic about something he insisted couldn’t wait until Monday.” Esme realized she was nervously twisting her hands and forced herself to stop. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to change and make myself presentable.”
He didn’t answer, but moved again, this time around her, likely taking her in from every angle.
She’d assumed arriving late to a session with a new Dom was far worse than being inappropriately dressed—maybe she’d guessed wrong. She should have taken down her hair, but without a brush, it would have been a mess. Her best attempt at alluring had been opening an extra button on her blouse.
“Hmm,” was his only response. When he paused in front of her, she could sense his slow perusal, but didn’t look up, afraid to see his disapproval. What would happen if he ended the session? Today was day eighty-seven of her trial membership. Her time was almost up.
She opened her mouth but wasn’t sure what to say. Offer more lame excuses or plead with him not to walk away. At a loss over what to do next, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from quivering.
He surprised her by murmuring, “Easy, lass. I think we can work with this.”
His hand lightly grazed her hip as he came full circle and stood behind her once again.
“I like the skirt. It’s snug enough to hug your curves and though the length is professional, it shows enough of your long legs. The slit in back hints at the treasures still hidden underneath. Sometimes, less can be more enticing than blatant, in your face, sexuality. This jacket needs to go, however.” He took care of the offending garment in a blink, by tugging it down her arms and tossing it aside.
Back in front of her again, he put a hand beneath her chin and tipped her face up to his. Amusement glittered in his green eyes, and she blinked, still trying to process that it was Master Finn standing in front of her.
The beginnings of a smile tilted up the corners of his mouth. “We meet again. It’s Esme isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Surprised?”
“More like stunned.”
His brows drew together in question. “Why? You don’t think we’ll work well together?”
“I got the impression you weren’t interested when you offered to find me another Dom.”
“Lack of interest wasn’t the problem; my jam-packed schedule and having little time to devote to a new submissive came to mind.”
“Has that changed, sir?”
“Let’s say I moved things around when Master Eric called and said he had a challenge for me. He made it sound like the idea suddenly came to him, but I know the man. He has a devious streak, though well meaning, and I believe he’s been plotting this for a while.”
“He has? But why?”
“Since he’s claimed and collared a sub of his own and found happiness, he wants the same for everyone else, and has turned into our resident matchmaker.”
She’d felt that way once. Nothing would do except for her single friends to find the same happiness she had with Andrew.
His thumb swept out and slid across her bottom lip. “A memory?”
Startled, she stared up at him a moment. “How did you know?”
“You have an expressive face, lass. Your husband was a good man?”
“The best, sir.”
“He loved you?”
“Very much so.”
“Would he have wanted you to live your life sad and alone?”
She hesitated, though the answer came to her swiftly, a slight rasp of emotion in her tone when she replied with conviction, “Never.”
“Then honor his memory by living it to the fullest, little one.”
“I’m trying, but it’s not easy, Master Finn.”
Angling his head to the side, it was his turn to appear startled.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“My friends back in Ireland call me Finn, but most people here use my first name.”
Carlos had called him Finnegan the first night, which she shortened. Thinking this was his first name, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Keiran is what my mathair chose to call me. Finnegan is my surname, lass.”
She flushed, feeling stupid.
“No harm done,” he murmured as his thumb brushed her heated cheek. “It reminds me of home, so I don’t mind at all.”
“I heard your name mentioned and wondered, but I never saw you here until this past weekend. Are you the mysterious Master K then, too?”
“That’s me. I haven’t been around as much as I’d like. Something kept coming up at work. Mostly too much work.”
“I can relate, sir.”
“Mmm,” he hummed gliding his hands down her arms to grip her hands. “Eric tells me you’re stuck, lass, and having trouble moving forward.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, sir.”
“It’s good you realize it. Eric also told me he gave you an ultimatum, lovely one; put up or get out.”
“Maybe not so abruptly as that, but that’s how I took it. He gave me until this weekend to find a Dom. I tried but when I had no takers, I had to turn to him for help.”
“I’m afraid for all their bluster, a Dom’s ego can be fragile, and being told no isn’t something they like to hear.”
“I discovered that after the tenth rejection. But in all fairness, I didn’t know full participation was required when I joined. Pax never said.”
“That’s because it’s never been an issue before now.”
“Leave it to me to be a trend setter,” she said dryly. “For all his firmness, Master Eric, seemed more concerned than anything. Does he always take such interest in his clients?”
“Do you mean does he stick his nose into everyone’s business? Pretty much.”
A laugh bubbled up, but she managed to contain it, letting only a smile slip.
“But have I mentioned we’re as much a community as we are a club, and a leader always emerges, even if ours tends to be a mother hen.”
The image of the big intimidating dungeon Master clucking as he tended his chicks was so absurd the laugh broke free.
“Now there’s a lovely sound.”
She flushed at the compliment.
His finger traced over her cheek and along her jaw. “And your blushes are equally lovely, but before we get too far off topic, you have a choice to make.”
“I do?”
“You always have a choice, lass. Remember that, no matter how intimidating the Dom, or Master Dom. I’ve agreed to take you on, but only if you agree. If you prefer, I’ll help you find someone else.”
“But no one wanted me.”
“Due respect to Eric, I don’t think it was fair to send you out on your own to negotiate, and he heard from me about it. If you’d like to proceed and do the choosing, I’ll act in Paxton’s stead and make the introductions, easing the way and smoothing any feathers you may have ruffled.”
“But Master Eric said I only had until the end of the month, which is this weekend.”
“I know what he said, lass, but contrary to what everyone thinks, his word isn’t law. We have other owners. Because his judgment is generally sound, we go along with his decisions for the most part. In this case, he’s wrong, and since I have joint ownership, as well as charge of you for the time being, I have a say.”
“You’re one of the owners?”
“Yes, and I’m willing to go to bat for you with Eric, the membership, and the board if need be. But you have to decide how it will be, stick with me, or continue your search. Time beyond this weekend, I’ll allow, but it can’t be forever. You’ve been coasting while trying to get your bearings. Three months isn’t all that long considering your situation, and the fact your sponsor left you so abruptly, but it’s time to stop living vicariously through others, and do something about it.”
She bit her lip. Here she was, geared up for a scene, and it had turned, well… weird.
“This isn’t what I expected when I came here tonight.”
His smile conveyed his understanding. “No doubt, but this needs to be decided to know how we proceed.”
“You’re one of the good ones,” she blurted out.
One brow arched in question. “You sound surprised. Eric might maneuver to get what he wants, but he wouldn’t set you up with an asshole.”
“In my experience, Doms come in three varieties. Jerks like Carlos who care only about themselves, players who are only looking for fun without commitment—not that there’s anything wrong with that since there are subs who want that too, and the good Doms.”
“And your definition of a good Dom would be what, lass?”
“Someone who listens, not only to the sub’s kinks but to their dreams, fears, and passions. Who knows it is a partnership, who has their best interests at heart, who knows when to push, but also when to stop, but most of all, someone who wants to know his sub on a level that goes deeper than libidos and genitalia.”
“Your husband was all those things, little Esme?”
“He wasn’t perfect, but he strived to be, for me.”
“Which makes him a tough act to follow. You realize that, yes?”
“I do, but I’m not looking for perfect. Although, I’d prefer not to be with a jerk or a player.”
Dare to Love Again Page 9
